Tuesday

Hail Mary

How's your faith these days Father... Does it lie dead, dismembered; the masticated pieces spat at the feet of your stained glass Gods? Does it choke your private sanctuary with the stench of decayed hope?

How's your faith these days Father... Does it hang heavy, cold against the collar; a bloodstone Rosary strung on veins of attrition?Are confessions sold in confidence to cast the Judas cross in tarnished silver?

How's your faith these days Father... Does it have the sweet persuasion it once had, or has the hypnotic drone of the doggerel lost its melodic allure? Or is it all finally a figment of the contrite collective; blind masses drawn to fat candles lit by weary wanderers to illuminate the path to salvation?

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GRIND IT UP AND SPIT IT OUT, THEY SAID

Eat Your Words

"I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't."— Dylan Thomas